Sunday, 25 September 2016

A friend first
pointed it out to me in the 70’s – an appreciation that appeared on the back
page of the Village Voice every November.Nothing fancy – just a plain “Nick Drake 1948-1974, thank you for the
music.”

Back then very few people had even heard his name.I had - through listening to John Peel
play his incandescent songs on BBC Radio.Still, I only possessed one of his albums, the debut, Five Leaves Left.It’s funny, I can remember the cover so
well – green bordered with a picture of a willowy young man looking out from an
attic window.

I had to be in a certain mood to play it – besides there
were times when you just wouldn’t want Nick in the room – especially if you
thought someone with you wouldn’t appreciate him.If it was someone you were romantically involved with – you
especially thought twice about it - supposing they didn’t like Nick, then
what?One of them had to go and I
well knew which one.I can summon
up that mood and a lot of other old feelings by just thinking of that album cover
and the songs within.

Nick Drake’s music was enigmatic – deep and churning but
deceptively calm on the surface.It never seems to date, perhaps, because he captured a mood, rather than
a time and place.

His other two albums, Bryter Layter and Pink Moon are no
less enthralling.They too evoke
the same mood.He died in 1974 – a
failure, in his own eyes at any rate.He is now best known in the US for a Volkswagen ad but you can hear his
influence on a multitude of artists.Many of them are attracted to his essence – none grasp it.All three of his albums sold less than
5000 copies in his lifetime.But
obviously each person who bought one treasured it and the mood it identified;
then passed on the word.Incredibly, his three albums keep getting better with time.

The memorial in the Voice eventually stopped.Did the admirer die, move on, move out
of New York?I watched the back
page of the Voice for a couple of years and then I too moved on.Just another New York oddity that I
rarely give thought to, until Saturday mornings on Celtic Crush when I play
Nick.

It never seemed like morning music to me back in the day – I
rarely listened to it before midnight.But Nick Drake’s songs have become timeless and hourless – much like the
man himself.

Tuesday, 20 September 2016

One of the most striking things about the upcoming
presidential election is how both candidates appear to be gazing in the rear
view mirror rather than anticipating the problems barreling down the pike.

That
being said, it’s always hard to distinguish between what’s for voter
consumption and what each candidate actually believes. Mr. Trump, in
particular, is a master at blurring the lines between wishful thinking and bald
reality.

Consider
his proposed wall and his conviction that Mexico will pay for its construction.
My advice for him is to attend the Irish Rep’s upcoming production of Finian’s
Rainbow; perhaps the Leprechaun will throw him a few wishes!

However,
it’s Mr. Trump’s pandering to the working class that is most troubling. His
promise to bring back coal mining to West Virginia and other states is blatantly
dishonest.

Coal
is dead! Not only is it one of the worst pollutants, there are now so many more
economical and cleaner energy sources available. But even if the mines were to
be reopened, the only way to make them profitable would be through automation -
with a minimum amount of actual miners’ jobs.

Secretary
Clinton does have a plan to rescue the old coalmining communities.It includes attracting high tech and
biochemical industries, and retraining the miners to work in the new plants.

But
it’s too little – and far too late. The cost would be huge and there’s scant
hope of an inert congress passing what amounts to an Appalachian Marshall Plan.
It would appear that the Invasion of Iraq – which both candidates originally
supported – was the last great American initiative.

Beyond
overuse of twitter and emails neither candidate seems to be aware of the effect
digital technology is having on the economy. Even in the niche market of music so
many people who once made decent livings are abandoning this once profitable
business.

What happened? Digital technology
changed the mode of delivery, making record stores obsolete; piracy became
rampant, and of late consumers have decided that it makes more sense to rent
thousands of songs for $10 a month rather than buy a CD for the same price.

It’s
hardly the worst example though, for most musicians and music biz workers tend
to be self-motivated; many have already adapted and are creating new jobs for
themselves.

Not
so, miners! It’s a big leap from chipping away at a coal face hundreds of feet
under the earth to grappling with an Excel spread sheet in a semi-automated
office.

It’s
the lack of imagination from both candidates that troubles me most. For the
real threat – industrial robotics - will undoubtedly strike in the coming years
and lead to much redundancy and long term unemployment.

You
don’t have to be a weatherman to see this tsunami on the horizon. Isaac Azimov was
predicting it back in the 1950’s.

I
recently re-read his Three Laws of Robotics. As ever, this Brooklyn born writer/savant
was on the money – apart from one small detail; his robots had designs on world
domination, ours merely want our jobs.

What
will we do in this brave new world that’s darkening our horizon? Take the A
train out to Rockaway every morning and watch the sunrise? But who’ll pay the
rent and cable?

Uber
won’t want us because the damned robots will come with built in GPS. And do you
really think that the corporate whizzes at Amazon will prefer a whining human
over a silent machine that can cheerfully pack boxes until the cows come home?

So
maybe the Donald and the Hillary know exactly what they’re doing – deal with
the dead and dull past rather than confront the uncomfortable future. Most of
us will never even meet a miner, let alone attempt to retrain him for a career
in biogenetics. And in the end, they say that a discouraged Azimov abandoned
science fiction for the certainties of Shakespeare.

You
have to wonder though, given the seeming intractability of future problems, why
would either of these candidates wish to be president?

Ah
well, that’s their problem. Time for the pub; at least I’ll never have to worry
about a robot replacing my favorite bartender. Or will I?

Thursday, 8 September 2016

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young
man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for
Paris is a moveable feast.”

Ernest
Hemingway

I
don’t doubt it for a minute, Hem, but I’d stack New York City up against the
City of Light any old day of the week, particularly in the wild and wooly
1970’s through the mid 1980’s.

Not
only was New York pulsing with exhilaration, you could have the time of your
life for little or no money.

That’s
not to say that present day Gotham hasn’t got its charms, you just have to
spend so much time working it’s hard to find time to actually enjoy the place.

Of
course, each generation makes its own terms with New York, but I have to say
that mine got one hell of a bargain.

When
I first arrived the city was reeling from debt and crime, and revolution was in
the air. The Vietnam War was still in full swing, and everyone seemed to be
protesting it.

Greenwich
Village might have seen better days but the nights were electric. Black
Panthers, Young Lords, Vietnam Vets Against The War, Official and Provisional
IRA, gays, feminists, and every liberation movement worth its salt milled
around the storied streets fueled by cheap booze and marijuana.

Most
rented dirt-cheap, bath-in-the-kitchen apartments in the Far East Village and mooned
around Tompkins Square Park by day. There were few bars east of Second Avenue
back then, apart from some Ukrainian shot and beer joints that tended to be off
limits to those of us with anything longer than a short back and sides.

Who
cared, you could pick up a six-pack for $3, and from a comfortable stoop watch
the world saunter by. The streets were full of action. Buskers played
everywhere, and street theatre flourished, though it was often difficult to
differentiate actors from audience.

Theatre
itself tended towards the surreal and fantastical, for realism onstage seemed phony
when compared to the actual drama on the street.

A
junky once stuck an 18” bayonet in my throat whilst I was taking my evening
constitutional in Tomkins Square. Nothing out of the ordinary, the real crux
was how did I give him my few dollars without putting my hand in my pocket –
which he explicitly warned me not to do for fear I would produce some weapon of
my own.

It
was a rare apartment that cost more than $200 a month – my least expensive went
for $95 – eat your hearts out, millennials! I did, however, get cleaned out in
my first week – but at least I wasn’t home to upset the burglars.

Turner
& Kirwan of Wexford were perhaps the first band to play CBGB’s but The Bowery
was so dangerous few of our following attended; after a couple of weeks we quit
our residency and went home on vacation. A bad career move! When we returned
Patti Smith had turned the barren bluegrass pub into the Mecca of Punk.

Despite
our disloyalty Hilly Crystal, the owner, still allowed Pierce Turner and me
free entry. Thus I saw The Ramones on their first appearance. The English
bartender confided that they seemed like fascist thugs in their black leather
jackets and torn jeans. He obviously had never met any nice Jewish boys from
Queens.

After
a somewhat bizarre on-stage performance Hilly banned me from the club – I may
have been the only one to suffer such censure. I was never, however, 86’d from
Malachy McCourt’s Bells of Hell, since I took care never to break the one house
rule – Thou shalt not bore thy neighbor.

But
since Turner & Kirwan were the house band I drank free there most nights of
the week – probably one of the reasons Malachy is no longer in the bar
business.

These
salad days came to an end during Ronald Regan’s Morning in America. Rents were
raised, Yuppies arrived, and something ineffable departed.

Ah
yes, Mr. Hemingway, I bet Paris was a hoot but I can’t imagine it held a candle
to New York. For what’s a stroll by the Seine compared to being the only one
banned from CBGB’s?